


Translucent

by Bulletproof_love



Series: Artist!Rafael [1]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Artist AU, Bisexual Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr., Depression, Gay, Gay Character, Gay Male Character, Heavy Angst, Life Model Trevor, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Painting, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), References to Depression, Yoga, alternative universe, artist rafael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 05:17:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15526869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bulletproof_love/pseuds/Bulletproof_love
Summary: For the past two years Rafael's world has been devoid of color, could a chance meeting at a life drawing class change all of that?





	Translucent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tobeconspicuous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconspicuous/gifts).



> Firstly I would love to say a huge thank you to tobeconspicuous for supporting me so much. She has been a rock through this entire process and a truly wonderful beta.

The painting was dark, one of the darkest that Rafael had ever had the audacity to paint. He stood in front of it, his emerald gaze fixated on the drying brush strokes as he watched the rivets of paint trail down the drying canvas like the blackest of tears.

The pigment stuck out against the vapid grey hues, highlighting the vivid splash of white he had used like a flourish in a bid to lighten the painting, to draw  something bright out of the darkness but he had failed. He could feel disappointment burning in his chest as he reviewed the canvas critically.

He had really tried this time. He had attempted to pour some resemblance of his old self, the man he used to be into this painting but he had failed once again. The crushing numbness just seemed to bleed out of him, staining every single thing that he created. 

His head jerked to the right. In his peripheral vision he could see the ghosts of the past two years stacked up beside each other against the brickwork of his studio. Each a violent reminder of the void he harboured deep down inside of him.

The context of each painting was different but the shades they stayed the same, tints of gaping blacks, dusky whites and murky greys. These were the only colours he painted in anymore.

After Sonny died he could only work in the way he saw the world, in desolate, bleak tones.

In the immediate aftermath it had been red, so many different hues and textures, he would spend hours just creating swirling patterns, mixing crimson, burgundy and rose. He had drowned in the grief, in the agony of losing his lover in such a violent manner.

After the funeral though he felt nothing. Once Sonny was in the ground, that single blood red carnation resting on the glossy surface of his coffin as they began to heap the dirt in, it was all over for Rafael. He had shut down completely

A piece of Rafael’s soul had died with Sonny during the shoot out that had claimed his life.  He didn’t see the world in colour anymore, his existence was lived solely in muted compositions.

Rafael looked around at the artwork surrounding him. That dull ache was back, it was a constant, persistent pain that gnawed at the inside of his chest everytime he cast his gaze over the artwork he had spent the past eighteen months preparing.

This was his life, his world without Sonny Carisi. 

* * *

Olivia Benson was no stranger to art, especially not to this particular artist. She had always loved Rafael's work, more so after she had introduced him and Sonny at a charity event all those years ago. His style had developed along with their relationship, his work had become brighter, the colours he used more vibrant. She had adored it so much that she had gifted several of his pieces to her friends over the years. She even had one of his canvases hanging above her ornate fireplace. ‘Here Come’s the Rain’ it was called.

She had fallen in love with the painting the second she had laid eyes on it. The midnight blue, streaked with flashes of cobalt and indigo. There were very subtle hints of grey speckled through the oil paint like raindrops splashing into puddles.

It was the umbrella that she loved the most, it shone like a dazzling sunny beacon in the centre of canvas bringing a cheerful glow to the rest of the image.

The light in the dark, she had thought upon seeing it and every time she looked at that painting the same thought trickled through her head, making her heart feel just that little bit less heavy.  It reminded her that there was still beauty in the world even on the days when it seemed harsh and cruel.

However here in the Williamson Gallery she didn’t recognise the artist that had painted these pictures. She couldn’t see his essence in any of the artwork that was hung upon the walls.

“It’s very dark,” The man beside her uttered, his hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket as his steely grey gaze fixated on the piece before them. “Different from the piece I bought two years ago.”

At six foot four, Trevor Langan towered above his friend. Today he was wearing black rimmed glasses that suited his handsome features, he was dressed casually in smart denim jeans with a crisp white button up shirt. On his left wrist he wore several bracelets, mala beads Olivia recalled. Trevor had joked once that they gave him a more “bohemian” air.

“It is,” Olivia agreed with a sigh, wrapping her arms around herself as she stared into the depths of the canvas. She could see the agony in every brush stroke, the anguish that rippled underneath the surface of the thinning layers.

“Grief affects people in different ways,” Trevor told her with a deep sigh.

She could tell, he felt it too. It was in the way his mouth became a thin, grim line as he surveyed the contours of the image. His body language had shifted slightly, leaning away from the offending canvas, his arms crossed over his chest as if he were erecting a barrier between himself and the intensity of the painting.

She didn’t blame him.

It hurt too much too look at. 

* * *

The art show was a success by Rafael’s standards, the Williamson Gallery was one of his favourite places to showcase but he hadn’t been back here since Sonny had died. He wondered what his younger lover would have made of these paintings. They were a deluge of colourlessness to the naked eye, a stark contrast from the usual art the gallery exhibited. Perhaps that was why he had sold so much tonight.

A few of the larger canvases had discreet red sticky dots alongside of them indicating their sale, along with a series he had created over the course of three separate paintings. Monochrome was in fashion he had been told by the gallery owner Rita Calhoun as she had thumbed through his pieces and his artwork was the perfect accompaniment.

Despite Rita’s request he hadn’t come to the show.

In the past he had been happy to attend, to discuss his work with his potential patrons. Sonny had always been there with him, casting a reassuring smile or bigging him up to potential buyers with those wild hand gestures of his. Now that he was on his own…

He simply couldn’t face the people that were catching a glimpse into the very depths of his soul.

So instead he returned to the gallery when he knew the show would be over. He wanted to see for himself, which of his pieces that had captured the people who had attended tonight. As he strolled through the floor of the showcase, he mentally cataloged the artwork that he would be parting with in the near future. His footsteps echoed like the remnants of a spirit as he toured the space before coming to stand once more at the sleek, polished front desk where he had agreed to meet Rita once she had finished locking up the majority of the gallery. His eyes strayed to a glossy pamphlets on surface of the desk, one in particular, catching his eye.

_Expand your horizons,_  it challenged him.

It was something that Sonny had used to say.

_Expand your horizons Rafi, what’s the harm in trying something new?_

Sonny’s voice echoed in the recesses of his mind as he picked up the leaflet. The young detective would say that to him whenever he wanted him to taste new foods, go somewhere out of his comfort zone. Rafael always relented, he had never been able to resist that Staten Island accent.

His thumb smoothed over the glossy paper before he folded it over and slipped it into the back pocket of his black jeans.

What was the harm indeed? 

* * *

There was trepidation coiling in Rafael’s stomach as he stood in front of his drawing board, his charcoals already laid out neatly on the small side table. Around him there were eight other people in similar positions, in various stages of unpacking their own supplies, preparing for the arrival of the model.

It had been a long time since he had attended a life drawing class, college was the last time he thought. The pamphlet had boasted small groups and that was something he thought he could handle however for some reason he felt nervous, apprehensive even. He liked the shelter of his studio, he liked the fact he could go days on end without speaking to another soul. He was also self-aware enough to understand how isolating that was, how for years he had been withdrawing from the world, living in a bubble where nothing or nobody could touch him.

It showed in his art.

People looked at his paintings and they knew, they knew they were looking at an empty husk of man, one that locked himself away because he couldn’t bear the thought of drifting through a world that could cut him as deeply as it already had.

He knew that Sonny wouldn’t approve of that, Liv had told him as much when she had turned up at his studio yesterday with a bag of freshly baked pastries and coffee from the little bakery down the street. The moment he inhaled that aromatic scent he thought he felt something, a flicker of the person he used to be.

That was why now, after Liv's very frank and terse discussion with him he had forced himself to attend this life drawing class. It was time to claw back some essence of himself, to try to discover who he was now without Sonny.

Rafael glanced up as the door to the studio opened and the model strode through.

He was tall, a couple of inches over six foot Rafael estimated. His grey eyes swept the room, a genial smile on those angular features of his. Rafael was unable to take his eyes off the other man, he watched his motions with a reluctant interest as he strode leisurely towards the stool in the centre of the room.

With a confidence that Rafael couldn’t even begin to fathom he stripped the robe from his shoulders before folding it neatly and handing it to the tutor.

Rafael found himself transfixed, his breath caught in his throat as he took in the decadent sight in front of him.

The model was breathtaking.

The muscles of his sinewy back elongated as he hunched forward, adopting ‘The Thinker' pose.

There was a quiet dignity that seemed to emanate from the model, lulling Rafael into a firm sense of security. He was simply just another artist observing the human body, he reminded himself. It didn't matter how attractive the model was, although it helped.

Rafael took in the profile of his angular bone structure, his gaze lingered over the sharp jawline as he picked up the charcoal and began to sketch.

Time slipped by without a care for Rafael, he focused on the feel of the charcoal against the paper as he drew the outline of the other man's body diverting his attention to the shading as he shaped that firm muscular structure. He was almost disappointed when he realised that the other artists were beginning to pack away their utensils. He tilted his head towards the model, seeing him reaching for the robe that now hung upon an antique coat rack.

The view from behind was spectacular and Rafael felt a blush creep up his cheeks as he admired the other man's assets.

“Like what you see, Mr Barba?” the model asked him without casting a glance over his shoulder.

Rafael swallowed hard, averting his gaze before realising that they were the only two people left in the room.

“I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” Rafael said wryly, crossing his arms over his chest as the model turned to face him, his dexterous fingers cinching the belt of the robe.  

“Trevor Langan,” The other man greeted putting his hand forward for Rafael to shake. “I attended your art show a few days ago with Olivia Benson.”

Rafael’s gaze dipped to Trevor’s outstretched hand before he conceded and shook it, his emerald eyes flickering up again so that he met Trevor’s intense grey gaze.

Trevor’s opposite hand came up to cover his own and for a moment Rafael felt lost. The gesture was intimate, more intimate that Rafael had imagined it could be. Trevor’s lips curved into a small smile and Rafael felt like the other man was looking for something as he searched his eyes. He reveled in the sensation before Trevor drew away.

“She mentioned she came with a friend. I assumed it was Tucker,” Rafael sublimated as he watched Trevor move through the room surveying each of the drawing boards with interest.

“He was working,” Trevor murmured, coming to a halt in front of Rafael’s work, his grey eyes studying it intently. “I found it interesting.”

“Interesting?” Rafael questioned as he came to stand alongside Trevor almost reluctantly. “I think emotive is more the term you’re searching for.”

He could feel the heat rolling off the other man’s skin as they stood in close quarters, reviewing the drawing that Rafael had created in charcoal.

“I’ve never looked at the drawings before.” Trevor revealed, tilting his head towards Rafael so that the other man could see the profile of his face.  “I usually take off before the artists pack up.”

“What changed?” Rafael asked the taller man.

“I wanted to see how you see me,” Trevor told him, turning his attention back to the drawing.

His expression was thoughtful, his inquisitive gaze roving over the harsh black lines and subtler smudges.

“And…” Rafael prompted, drawing the word out so that Trevor would take the hint.

“I think I would look better in colour,”  He informed the artist, his palm coming to rest on the centre of his chest, his fingers splayed out across the soft, fleece like fabric of the robe. “You’ve just started but already it makes me feel sad.  It makes my chest ache.”

“I don’t use colour anymore.” Rafael told him, stepping away and busying himself by tidying up the array of charcoals resting haphazardly up the side table.

“You used to.” Trevor murmured. Rafael could feel the model’s eyes on him as he spoke. “I have one of your paintings in my apartment. I think you titled it ’Sonny Day’.”

He remembered that one, the hues of cornflower blue, mixed with the yellow and gold to create the perfect picture of that lake in Vermont. He had spent their vacation painting on the veranda whilst Sonny had lounged in the swing seat reading passages out loud.

He was drawn back the present by the clattering of his slender charcoal tin as it slipped from his fingers, scattering the dust across the side table and all over his hands.

“Not anymore.” Rafael whispered in response to Trevor’s words as he stared down at his stained palms. 

* * *

Despite his reservations Rafael returned to the life drawing class the following week and then again the week after that. He wasn’t sure when it happened or even how but the life drawing class seemed to give him a thirst that he was unaccustomed to.

It had been years since he had challenged himself as an artist but life drawing did just that. He concentrated his attention on areas that he had tended to shirk in his younger days, the segments of the human body he found difficult to draw. He would spend hours sketching in pencil, in ink, with other tools that he had long ago forgotten existed. His work was still in black and white but it had taken on a different shape, developed a different aspect.

Trevor was always the model and if Rafael was honest he enjoyed drawing him. The complexity of some of the poses and the stamina in which Trevor exhibited ensured that the sessions stayed interesting. Even if they did leave Rafael questioning how on earth he managed to retain it.

He asked Trevor that one night after the class had ended. The two of them had begun the habit of walking to the coffee shop just around the corner from the art studio after each of the sessions and were seated in the comfortable leather tub chairs, sipping mochas from porcelain cups.

“Yoga,” Trevor informed him, setting his drink down upon the chestnut table between the two of them. “I own a studio a couple of blocks away.”

It explained a lot, Rafael thought as he processed the information. Trevor’s unique poses, the overall toning of his body, the serene, meditative state he seemed to go while they drew him.

“You should come to one of my sessions,” Trevor had said, picking up the cup again before resuming the conversation. “It would do your back the world of good.”

Rafael looked at the other man, his eyebrows furrowing as Trevor reviewed him evenly. He had never mentioned the pain in his back before, not to anyone. It was a constant tight feeling, that seemed to spasm when he hunched over his work for too long.

“A yogi knows all,” The other man said with a teasing lilt that caused Rafael to roll his eyes.

“You think it will help?” he queried, half seriously as he sagged back into the tub chair.

“We can do a one to one session if you would like,” Trevor suggested with an easy shrug that indicated no pressure. “See if it’s something that works for you.”

Yet again despite his reservations, Rafael agreed. 

* * *

 To Rafael’s immense surprise he loved yoga.

He enjoyed the fluidity of the motions, the burst of invigoration that seemed to resonate throughout his entire body. Trevor spent one to two hours a week working with him to perfect stretches and breathing techniques that Rafael had never known had existed before this point. He felt healthier and more energetic than he had in years.

It was the quiet that he liked the best. There was a serenity in movements that Trevor guided him through. The other man used the briefest of touches to correct his stance, his deliberate hands altering the trajectory of an arm or a leg. He was always supportive, always gentle.

For a couple of hours a week, Rafael’s rampant brain was blissfully silent.

For the first time in a long time he felt grounded again, present in the world and as his eyes came to rest on Trevor, he knew it was because of him. 

* * *

It was Trevor’s eyes that Rafael decided to focus on in life drawing class. The other man’s head was tilted towards him, those expressive grey eyes focused on a point far beyond Rafael. He was working with oil paints today, they had been provided by the tutor at the beginning of the session and were laid out in colour order on the side table.

Rafael dipped his brush, working on the grey outer hue of Trevor’s iris. Even from here he could see the specks of blue in the other man’s eyes, the small flecks spattered outwards from his pupil before fading into a darker shade of grey.

Rafael didn’t even realise he was reaching for the cobalt blue paint, his focus was on Trevor, on those stunning eyes of his and how he could capture the beautiful essence of the man posed in front of him.

“You’re painting in colour again.” Trevor remarked later on as he took up residence alongside Rafael, as was their custom in the aftermath of each of the sessions.

Trevor turned his head, their eyes meeting once more as Rafael smiled.

“Yes.” He murmured, hoping to convey the depth of his emotions. “Yes I am.”


End file.
